For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. “It’s the spring,” he said. I shall make no defence. But it’s very beastly.
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